


Capture

by orphan_account



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Photographer, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 14:56:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you would like to reblog or like this fic on tumblr:</p><p>http://teaandotherstuff.tumblr.com/post/46376229731/capture</p></blockquote>





	Capture

The first time Michael sees him, it’s when he develops the photographs.

He doesn’t even capture the man in person; he doesn’t even notice him through the lens the first time he’s there. But when Michael gets home, shutting himself in the spare room after opting to take and develop them the old-fashioned way, he finally sees the man’s features blur into life, speckled in liquid and dowsed in red light.

Even then - the very first time he sees his picture - Michael is captivated.

Through the crimson light and not-yet-formed picture he can see those bright eyes and warm smile stand out. When everything clears and brightens, leaving behind a trail of autumn scenery and the most beautiful person he’d ever captured in his memory or on film, Michael knows then that he can’t forget about him.  He leaves the photograph hanging from a string-based line, perfectly aligned unlike all the other pictures and marvels at how perfect the scene is.

When Michael goes to sleep that night, his vision is filled with falling leaves, green landscapes and even greener eyes.

He takes the photograph with him the day after, trying not to get it creased in his black shoulder bag and feeling hope rise and dwindle in waves within him as he walks out of his apartment. Half- _hoping_ the man would be there, half- _knowing_ that he wasn’t. He still felt disappointed as he shuffled onto the field, pulling his jacket’s zip further up to shield him from the cold wind and looking out at the landscape. Taking the picture out of his bag, he frowns as one of the corners have creased and bent. Smoothing the paper out again he finds himself not caring when he looks onto the picture again.

Lifting his head up, he looked at the scene where he’d unintentionally captured the photograph and found it void of people. As Michael realised just how cold and empty the park was, he felt slightly embarrassed and angry at how easily he’d come back here, all down to a picture of a man he didn’t even know. He tried to reason that this is just what happened when he found a nice shot.

Like the time he’d spent the week at a hotel in the city on the top floor, with the shadowed and light-speckled views of buildings and street lights on a night it was relaxing. Cathartic, even. That’s why he’d started this hobby in the first place, after all. But to just to sit by himself as life passed by and he snapped up sections of time as a souvenir, that night had been the most relaxed he’d ever found himself. He returned to the balcony every night until the very second he had to leave. Michael still found himself wanting to go back, if just for the view.

The excuse was flimsy, he knew. But it didn’t stop him from fumbling around for his camera and swearing for a minute when he couldn’t grab it, a digital one this time, and taking another couple of shots. Each time he switched back to the photograph his eyes lingered for a second on those off cast emerald orbs, and he tried to align the new shots perfectly. He finally got one, but when he flicked back onto the glowing screen, it didn’t look like such a good shot at all with that unknown figure missing from his spot on the bench.

Michael looked around and sighed, slightly irritated at his own actions, before he turned to go back home.

He didn’t return to the park until nearly a week later. The photograph that had been sitting on the mantelpiece in his apartment was now back in his bag, knowing that when he passed the park to walk home that day, he wouldn’t be able to resist. He’d almost forgotten about the man in the photograph, but every now and then the picture would catch his eye as he walked into the living room, and that unusual curiosity would spark again.

Michael muttered a quiet _“Idiot.”_ under his breath as a man walking his dog knocked into his side and didn’t even spare an apologetic glance. Ignoring the irritation easily rising in his gut he trailed up to a slight rise in the grass until on top of a small hill. The same scene and the same position greeted him but slightly different by now. There were less leaves on the trees, and a lot more scattered under foot. The light was a lot less visible under dark looking clouds, and Michael suddenly realised it was probably about to rain.

Quickly reaching for his camera, Michael spent a little less than a minute setting the small camera up and flinched as a droplet of water dropped on the side of the screen. Huffing, he drew his jacket’s hood up with one hand, hiding auburn curls beneath the material and quickly setting up shot. Again, he looked back to the same photo and worried about the rain came down in a light procession. He didn’t spend long there that day as the cold began to settle in. The pictures were even worse the second time. Dull, lifeless and speckled with blurs from the water on the lens and just one man short, no green eyes staring down the pathway and lighting up the whole shot. To top it off, Michael realised the photograph he’d held between his hand and camera was now damp, paper curling and in one case ink smudging.

   “ _Fuck_.” He muttered. Shoving the small item, along with the picture, into his bag and feeling a sinking in his chest when he felt the picture bend limply, slotting inside and becoming more and more tatty each time Michael handled it. He took it as a sign to leave, grumbling as he walked down the pathway with the rain pouring down faster, finally making his way home.

He never even noticed a man get up from one of the benches, with emerald eyes that seemed to light up the life around him.

It was nearly three weeks before Michael visited the park again. The bent and worn photograph still took place on his mantel, but he decided that day he was to get rid of it and give up. No matter how many times he told himself that what he was doing was odd, or that he was wasting time and effort trying to get good shots that we’re no longer possible, he _still_ thought about who that man was. With those messy spikes and stubbled chin and eyes the _made_ the picture so wonderful, even in its ripped and bent state.

Nearly every tree had shed and laid a blanket of golden and breaking leaves across the paths. Clouds loomed over-head with tell-tale signs of snow, and as the first flake fell in front of Michael’s eyes, he decided he wouldn’t take a picture from the same spot. Not today. He didn’t know this man and probably never would. Michael was nothing but a figure on the other side of a glass lens and he’d never be in that scene. But as he walked down that familiar pathway, he slowed mid-way.

The park didn’t seem so dreary as his own brown eyes met green ones that seemed to light up the whole park.

Michael didn’t hesitate as he walked towards the occupied bench, noticing the man look up and smile for a brief moment. Within a second, he’d seated himself on the other side of the bench, staring in front and thinking just how much better the man looked in person. When the other glanced in his direction for a second, catching eye contact in a fleeting action, Michael let himself take a chance and quietly let his voice cut the tension, hoping the small hint of humour made it through his voice.

   “Hey.”

The man smiled, and Michael almost wished he could take a picture then and there. He didn’t expect the English accent to cut through the cold breeze, muttering a small. “Hi.” and leaning forward, head tilted in Michael’s direction now.

   “I’ve seen you here before, right?” Michael asked tentatively, not used to being this polite to people he didn’t know. But there was something special about those bright eyes and friendly posture that meant he didn’t want to let this slip.

   “I used to come here quite a lot, but it’s getting a bit too chilly now.” As if on queue, Michael noticed how a flake of snow got caught on the man’s fringe and had to hold back a smile. Anxiety began to rise in Michael’s chest as he wondered how maybe this small talk would be it, but as he nodded and spoke up, seeing Gavin’s eyes light up further, he knew that it wouldn’t be that simple.

   “I was hoping to get some pictures, but it’s too cold by now.”

   “You take photos?”

   “Not professionally, but yeah, I guess.”

   “Brilliant. I do a little filming as well.”

   “Professionally?”

   “I wish.” The man laughed and Michael felt himself smile at the sound.

Michael began to wonder what to say next, or if he should continue at all, but his worries were answered when it was the other who carried on.

   “I’m Gavin, by the way.”

He smiled and nodded. “Michael.”

Gavin offered him his hand, to which he shook, and had to hold back a slight chuckle at just how charismatic this man was to someone he barely even knew. As he spoke up again in that British accent he found himself lost in, he watched those green eyes pinned to his own and marvelled in how just that stare and beaming smile could light up any vision and memory of Michael’s.

 

A year later, Michael still finds himself holding that crumpled and torn picture of Gavin and still wondering how the photo can be so beautiful when it’s so tattered and bent. He places it back on the mantel with a smile, and looks at the various others that now rest across the shelf. Every picture, all he can focus on are those emerald eyes and beaming smile, except this time he isn’t behind a lens and separated from the scene, because his own eyes and smile beam back at him.

    “Michael, you ready?”

   “Yeah, calm down.” Michael mumbles, his usual disposition tinted with nothing short of fondness. He grabs his jacket from their apartment’s sofa and slips it on, checking his pockets for his phone before he feels a weight slam into him, pushing him towards the door.

   “Gavin!” Michael shouts angrily, though his face deceives him.

Gavin does nothing but laugh, grabbing his partner by the arm and near dragging him out the door. “Come on, my little Michael!”

He does nothing to stop him, just grumbles and curses as Gavin enthusiastically drags him outside and towards the park they know so well.

 

The landscape's almost the same as when Michael first laid eyes on him. The trees laced in crimson and gold, fluttering down in nonsensical patterns and dropping at their feet. Except this time, with Gavin’s eyes pinned to his own and that accent settling warm and comforting in his chest - the scene is just that little bit better.

No photograph could capture that.

**Author's Note:**

> If you would like to reblog or like this fic on tumblr:
> 
> http://teaandotherstuff.tumblr.com/post/46376229731/capture


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